The Fiann
by writeriz
Summary: My Honours thesis on the characterisation of Irish sidhe. It is a prequel piece to a series I am working on. Eamon, the arrogant youngest son of the King of the Sidhe, gets his wish to lead a fiann. But, he finds it easier said than done to win their respect. And, he spends centuries trying to do so. A quick look into what shaped the character of Eamon as seen in the series.


_Innisfail AD1342_

"May my fiann be my home, my guiding light."

The words played around his head as he woke and stretched languidly. He finally had everything he wanted; he would not have to fight with his father anymore and he would not have to work his ass off for Awnan either. He was his own leader.

Fighting. Fornication. Festivities. The three most important things to any good _Sidhe_. Eamon had had plenty of the second two last night, and today marked a future of plenty of the first.

Eamon sat up, wondering what time it was and what his fiann would be doing. _His fiann..._ the idea sent a buzz of excitement through him, which fortified him enough to crawl out of bed and get dressed in his simple training garb.

He sheathed his claymore on his back as he left his room and headed for their designated training room. At least he thought there had been talk of a designated training room. Now, he was not actually sure...he may have been discussing taking that _Sidhe_ woman to a training room and...?

He shrugged as he walked in and found his fiann already hard at work. At least, he assumed it was his. Eight of them were training and their _filid_ was busy making notes. He did, though, recognise the woman with blue hair! She was definitely one of his. The rest could have been part of any fiann, though.

"Looking good, well rested." Eamon smiled as he watched them.

A few eyes turned to him for a second, a scowl on their faces, before they turned back to their training partners. The _filid_ looked at him for a moment longer and Eamon walked over to him.

"Eamon." He nodded to the man.

He looked Eamon over for a moment. "Oran," he replied before going back to his task.

Oran had long, straight blond hair, light blue eyes and a large mace leaning on the wall next to him. He looked like a quiet, sensible young _Sidhe_ and Eamon was pleased; most _filid_ seemed more inclined to run through the meadows with the children.

"You fight, Oran?" Eamon asked, indicating the mace.

Oran looked at it, looked at Eamon, then went back to watching the training _Sidhe_. "I have the ability if it's called for."

Eamon nodded, not particularly concerned about the _filid's_ detachment.

He watched his fiann; they all seemed competent enough. There were two women; the blue-haired one with tattoos on her face and a wicked axe, and one with stark black hair, bright red lips and a bladed bow on her back. He watched their forms appreciatively as they fought; if there was one thing he liked, it was a woman who could fight.

He vaguely recognised the man with long brown hair pushed back in a band...was his name Conal? Conlan? Conway? Something like that. He wielded two maces as he fought a dark-haired, scarred _Sidhe_ who duel-wielded swords.

Another brown-haired man faced off against a redhead, both of their swords lost in a blur of movement that impressed Eamon. The redhead looked much more grim than his opponent.

The last two, one ebony, one ivory, bantered as they fought, nimbly ducking under the other's sword with a laugh.

"They all fight well. You're taking notes, then?" Eamon asked.

Oran ignored him as he kept a watchful eye on the room.

"How long have they been at it?" Eamon tried again.

Oran gave him one indolent glance. "Long enough to wonder if you were coming," he answered.

Eamon scowled at the man, wondering how he dared to question his leader.

 _Ha, leader,_ Eamon smiled to himself. Because that is exactly what he was; after forty-one years of pestering his father, he finally had what he deserved. He finally had a fiann to lead and a place to belong.

He was still surprised his father had finally acquiesced to his demand, even if Eamon had had to agree to keep his title. Though, faced with the prospect that Eamon would do whatever he wanted anyway, he supposed his father realised he did not have a choice unless he actually wanted to exile his youngest child. Eamon grinned; he had finally outwitted the king.

He blinked, noticing the fiann had taken a break.

Eamon stepped forward to address them. "Well, you are all exceptional fighters. Your mentors must be proud."

As one, the eight pairs of eyes turned to him. Each one was hard and he chuckled, realising that they would obviously be nervous around their new leader, and a prince no less – he might have been inclined to ditch the title, but it often caused those around him to feel in awe and he liked that.

"Aye, and dedicated too," The headband-wearing _Sidhe_ replied, dead-pan.

Eamon grinned. "Excellent."

"Shall we see how good a fighter you are then, Prince?" he asked.

"Certainly..." Eamon waited to see what the man's name was.

He raised an eyebrow at Eamon. "Conor."

"Conor, great!" Eamon drew his claymore and nodded for Conor to take his place.

The rest of the fiann stepped back to give them space. Conor's dark blue eyes were calculating as he and Eamon circled each other.

"So, you are this prince we heard so much about? And, now you are our leader?" Conor asked, pulling his maces from their sheaths and twirling them expertly.

Eamon grinned. "Alas, still a prince. Though, I shall prove I deserve to be your leader. I would not have glorified bodyguards and give nothing in return."

Conor grunted as though begrudgingly pleased with his statement, but his eyes held distrust. "You will have to prove yourself, _Prince_. If Lord Awnan allowed you to lead a fiann, we can only assume you have some merit, but time will tell if you belong with us."

Conor lunged forward and Eamon's sword flashed up to meet one mace, his foot kicking out to block the other. Despite the claymore's less elegant size, Eamon wielded it quickly and with grace, meeting most of Conor's blows. Sick of being smashed with the second mace, Eamon discarded his claymore, pulling his dagger and sword.

"You're handy enough alright, even if you can't get out of bed." Conor said as they circled once more.

"Awnan trained me hard, even if I was not so deserving at times."

Eamon saw something spark in the other man's eyes before they clashed again, both grinning. Eamon moved faster now with the smaller weapons, using his body as well as his blades. In a matter of moments, Eamon had the upper hand, but Conor had him pinned to the mat in the blink of an eye. They both breathed heavily and Eamon knew bruises were forming.

Eamon thought he saw a flicker of approval in Conor's eyes.

"Like I said, Awnan pushed me hard. He knew I was capable and willing, I just had to prove it to myself first," Eamon replied as he sheathed his weapons.

"You have indeed proven yourself a capable soldier, but you will still have to prove you're worthy of leadership[I1] ," Conor said, spinning his maces again.

Eamon blinked. "What?"

"You didn't think it was going to be as easy as walking in here hours late and we'd fall at the feet of our great leader?" Conor grinned and all eight of them laughed.

Eamon looked around at them, his grin firmly in place, even though his insides were churning. Doubt was not a common experience for him, and he did not like it. He had entirely expected it would be that easy; he was their leader, he deserved to be...did he not?

"Of course not, even a prince must earn his place."

"And, if he earns it at the end of my blade, so much the better," The blue-haired woman said, her lips curling in an unpleasant smile.

"Nessa." Conor's disapproving tone did not come close to hiding his amusement. He looked back to Eamon. "Well? What is your command, _sir_?"

Eamon looked around at them. "Well, to training then. I shall watch for a while longer, then exchange places with someone."

They nodded and turned back to the training mats. Eamon stationed himself near Oran, who was still scribbling furiously in his book. Oran eyed him suspiciously.

"I take it I am not well-liked in this room," Eamon said as the clang of metal on metal rang out.

Oran shrugged. "Did you expect to be when you turn up late and strutting around like a fecking bitch in heat?"

Eamon blinked as Oran flashed him a grin. "Well, your honesty is welcome[I2] ."

Oran grinned again. "Look, I'm just a _filid_ , I know, but this lot? They're soldiers, they're here because the love of the fight is stronger in them than most the _tuath_. I'd like to think it's the same for you, even if you have a funny way of showing it."

Eamon watched as Oran made more notes, watching the fiann intently.

"I'll make you a copy of the notes."

"Why do I need a copy of the notes?"

Oran tensed and glared at him again; whatever progress Eamon had made with the man, it was ruined. "What sort of training did Lord Awnan give you, if you don't know about the _filid_ notes?" he shook his head.

"How about you tell me then?" Eamon replied, his gaze narrowing. He was usually fairly jovial, but like all _Sidhe_ , he was quick to anger if provoked.

Oran rolled his eyes. "Danu, calm down. The notes will help you form battle strategies, use our fiann's strengths, avoid weaknesses."

"Oi, Princeling, are you going to actually do anything today, or just stand around looking pretty?" Conor called.

Eamon ground his teeth and pulled his claymore out. Conor had been training with Nessa. Eamon indicated Conor step aside and Eamon took his place.

Next to the giant axe in her hands, Nessa looked tiny, though she was not much shorter than he. She grinned at him and he could sense her ferociousness was about as contained as the Hunt.

"Well, come on, then. Show me what you've got."

Eamon obliged.

She whirled the axe with ease and precision, a gleeful smile on her face. Eamon met her blow for blow until she disarmed him and threw her own weapon away.

"You're good, but I've had better." She winked as they circled one another.

"Trust me, by the time I'm done, I'll be the best you've ever had," Eamon replied.

She pulled her dagger and he did likewise, just managing to lean back in time to avoid her blade as it slashed past his face. He grinned, but was then wincing as she whipped it back. He felt it bite into his cheek, the very faint trace of iron in her blade enough to stop the cut healing itself.

"Point to me." Nessa beamed.

Eamon wiped his cheek and she seemed to wait as he closed the cut; it was small enough that he could heal it on his own. When the burning was gone, he took his stance and she came at him again. He ducked and weaved, avoiding her blade more easily as he learnt her moves. Awnan had always said he learnt his opponent quickly.

Eamon struck out with his foot, smashing into her leg. He heard it crunch and she stumbled, but her grin never faltered. She collected herself and gave her leg a shake as the bone knitted back together.

Eamon found himself smiling at her as well, his heart racing and fever for the fight rising.

As soldiers, part of their training involved teaching their bodies to heal anything disadvantageous – cuts, breaks – faster than a normal _Sidhe_ ; break a courtier's bone and they would be making a visit to Vailintin, but break a soldier's bone and it barely broke their stride.

This was the part of the fianna Eamon lived for, the no holds barred violence, the way it made him feel alive, the competition, the rush he could get nowhere else but the rare very talented woman in his bed. It was that heady feeling of power that coursed through the veins of some _Sidhe_ which drove them to join the fianna.

By the time Eamon conceded defeat to Nessa, his blood was pumping and he could not wipe the grin off his face, even if today had been the first day he had lost to anyone in a long time.

Nessa looked down at him, her blade on his throat, his blade on the other side of the room. "Not the worst I've had, but certainly not the best."

"So sorry to disappoint. I shall have to try harder to please, next time. Not something I usually have to say," Eamon responded.

Nessa's eyes flashed with humour and she stepped away. When she did not extend her hand to help him up, he knew he still had not impressed anyone.

"Well, I think that's about it for today." Conor said, looking around and the rest of them nodded, packing away their weapons. He looked at Eamon. "Same time tomorrow."

The fiann walked out, talking among themselves and sharing jokes. Eamon stood in the training room and watched them leave, utter disbelief crashing through his high.

He squared his shoulders, decided now was not the time for a tantrum, and went to find someone who would give him some advice...hopefully without too much sarcasm.

"Mave, I need-" He yelled as he burst into his sister's room...then promptly stopped as she shrieked and rolled off the bed. Eamon grinned at the _Sidhe_ she had been on top of and rocked back on his heels. "Evening, Tavis."

"Evening, Prince Eamon." Tavis replied, getting up and pulling on his pants and shirt. "Evening, Princess Mavelle." He said as he hurried out.

"I don't imagine he's quite so formal in the throes of passion." Eamon chortled. "Or, do you prefer he scream that? Presuming you please him..."

He petered out when he saw Mavelle's eyes, violet like his own, glare at him as her head popped over the side of the bed. "Do we not knock now?"

Eamon looked back at the door through which Tavis had left. "It seems we do not."

Mavelle sighed, standing as she pulled on her robe. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, brother?"

"I need your advice."

She sighed again and sat on the bed. "No, women do not like it when you interrupt them. Always let them finish."

Eamon chuckled. "Good advice, but not what I'm after."

She glared at him. "You should be more specific in your requests then."

"Training today did not go...as well as I'd hoped."

"Right...and you've come to me because I would know how to fix that because I have my own fiann," Mavelle replied sarcastically.

Eamon, to his credit, felt a twinge of guilt. In all the years the fianna had been in place, Eamon was the first royal to lead his own fiann; every other royal was merely part of a fiann with their own leader who acted like glorified bodyguards. That Mavelle had been trying to convince their father to let her lead her own fiann and been denied was a point of contention between them.

"I tried to negotiate for you too, Mave. Father said you'd have to do it yourself."

She huffed. "Yes, because I haven't been doing that for longer than you."

"Maybe. That does not prevent me needing your advice on what to do about mine."

"What's the matter with them?"

Eamon sighed. "They did not take to me." He recounted the afternoon.

Mavelle laughed, not chastened by the look on his face. "Little brother, what did you expect?"

"That they would see my enthusiasm and accept me as their leader?"

"In what way did you show your enthusiasm, Eamon?" Mavelle sounded like she had other things she would rather be doing, but she humoured him. "You turned up late and...what did this Oran say exactly?"

"I believe he called me a 'fecking bitch in heat'."

"He did not describe you wrongly."

"Remind me to inform Father you are sleeping with his fiann again," Eamon grumbled.

Mavelle, though, only laughed at his threat. "Do what you like." She grew serious for a moment. "Eamon, is this what you really want?"

"I will tell you the same thing I told Father, yes, I want to take care of my own fiann. Damn being a prince, I am bloody worthless at that. As a fiann leader, I can be of some worth."

"You're going to have to earn it."

"What?"

"Their respect. Danu, you're thicker than a troll, today."

"And, how do you propose I win them over?"

"I see your _charming_ personality isn't doing the trick." She grinned.

"Apparently not. I suspect you have some kind of plan."

"It's hardly a plan, Eamon. It's common sense. Show them what they mean to you. Put in the Danu-damned effort. Get to training before them, train harder, focus on them, stay until after they've left for dinner. Get to know them."

"When you put it like that, you make it sound easy."

Mavelle sighed, stood up and walked towards him. "Because, if it's what you truly want, it should be easy, Eamon. Look at Midir and Sloan. Do their fianna respect them?" she scoffed and she took his arms in her hands. "Only as far as they're afraid of them. Another example, look at Donagh...Pearse respects him because, unlike the rest of our siblings, he lets his fiann leader do what he's supposed to do. Be a leader like Pearse, Eamon, but also be like Donagh; let yourself do what needs to be done to show your fiann what they mean to you."

She looked into his eyes and what he saw in hers made sense. He had thought he had grown in his last few decades, but the day had only shown him how much more he had to learn.

"You could be a great fiann leader, brother, but you need to put aside some of your other _Sidhe_ ways. Can you do that?"

Eamon paused before he nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Now, go and prove to them that all your good intentions aren't just in your head." Mavelle smiled, turning him and pushing him towards the door. As he reached for the handle, she called out, "oh, and if Tavis is still loitering outside, can you send him back in, please?"


End file.
